Voyage to Malarawan
by theotherkayeiffel42
Summary: Just when he thinks his travelling career is over and he's ready to hang up his hat, an old acquaintance stumbles in with a map to a faraway land. How could a quick wit and seasoned adventurer refuse?


For the hundreds of pages worth of my travels for which I have found accounts, I often wonder if those who read them fully trust their reality, or if they are merely regarded as pieces of indulgent fiction, not so far from the tall tales of Vespucci. It is thus so that my stories of journey seem highly fantastical to the unwary ear, but each one is true and carries realities beyond the page, better than can be said of the late explorer.

Yet, what good are stories that no-one will believe? That question alone, I confess, was nearly my undoing. I had just begun to mull over my early retirement when I happened to meet with a man who caused my prospects to change. His name was Ross—a stout, ruddy-faced fellow with a low-toned, gruff brogue. He came into my study early on a Tuesday morning, the 15th of September, charter in hand, declaring himself my savior. He continued, (and I listened, for his inverted tact and confidence was of interest to me), that he had a ship ready to sail at first light and a destination that no explorer had heard the name of. He then produced a map from a pouch in his belt and spread it out over my reading.

"They say the natives call it Malarry-won." He pointed the supposed isle out to me, just a few days south and west of our mother country's coast. "Not so far to go from us, but no one ever has."

I asked him why that fact was so, in his opinion, but his excitement was only catalyzed.

"Don't know why, but it's so!" he assured me. "People's seen it, though. Sailing ships down past Wales always see it: a tiny little island in the sea. Tiny little mystery." He looked side to side, then leaned in, as if we were being observed. "I've heard say that when you get near enough to the Malarry-won island, it shines in the day like a shooting star."

I had to admit I was moved—not only by the pitiful captivation of my company, but also by that tiny little mystery island, "Malarry-won." I could only assume he meant 'Malarawan,' a phrase from the Tropics of which I knew not the meaning. Despite himself, Ross had made a convincing argument for the place. Inhabited yet unexplored, halfway between legend and confirmed in the eyes of the people.

With opportunity knocking at the time it did, it was my chance to redeem myself. As a boon to my visitor and no more than I'd admitted there, I affixed my signature to his charter and set about outfitting a trunk for the voyage.

As we sailed out to sea, I grimly noted how smoothly things had come together. As much as I would enjoy telling a tale of complications amid the high seas, I found the beginning of my own voyage quite of the opposite kind. The captain was a learned and practiced seaman, and the crew moved like a well-oiled machine. There were no lost goods, foodstuffs, luggage or time, and the powerful wind in our sails propelled us at a fair clip for the whole of the morning. I'm no believer in good luck as a determined supply that runs out—I lamented my loss of repute for narrating a voyage at sea with no conflict: an accepted yarn gaudy enough to turn any lawman green with envy.

However, by the dawn of our fourth day, the lookout was able to confirm sight of our island destination, and true to legend, as the sun rose in the east, the land gave forth a glow bright enough to blind us, even in the morning's low light. As we drew nearer to the island, we were greeted by the most welcome of images: clear blue surrounding waters, peach sand, and lush, natural foliage. I had to rub my eyes once or twice. How could a place known to be inhabited remain so beautiful? Around me, the murmurs of the crew echoed my own curiosity, hopeful, but growing in worry. One of them men on deck, uneasiness clouding his eyes, bade me look at the island again. I looked again to the shores to find that our vessel had become part of the scenery, or had it indeed? Within our view of the island, there appeared to us a ship with likeness to ours: similar in size, but with fresher paint, more polished metal, and newer riggings. I turned away, willing myself not to think on the matter, not to let my mind run rampant on thoughts of a 'ghost ship.' One wonders what belief in the supernatural might do to my credibility!

I asked the captain when and where we might dock, but he answered with a wave of his hand.

"What d'you think we've been trying to do for the past hour?" he snapped. "Malaryywon's a sham, I say." He gestured then to the port side. "Every time we see a crevice, crew and I sail her a little bit closer, but every time we do, run into a hard edge and scrape the hull of barnacles." He looked over the edge. "Very strange indeed."

Next to the captain, I stood and peered over the side. At the same time, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and illuminated the island, causing the captain and I to fall back, protecting our eyes. It was in the next moment, after the sun had disappeared once more that I realized the source of the island's peculiarity: the shore and sea immediately around it were not land and water at all, but shiny surfaces. Shiny surfaces that could absorb sunlight and deflect in simultaneously, while even then projecting images. Mirrors.

Professing my epiphany then to him, I asked the captain's permission to row ashore with a portion of the crew to rearrange the surfaces for docking. Still doubting and likely contemptuous of me by this point, he gave me leave, sending five of us in a lifeboat to the shore. I showed the men as we ran into the hard edge once more that it was possible to stand atop the surfaces reflecting water without falling in (though I felt perfectly insane attempting it myself!). From there, we proceeded to walk ashore in effort to find a gap in the paneling that could be widened. Not long after stepping onto the sandy reflection, the smallest gave a shout and indicated a spot mid-beach where he could fit his fingers in. All of the rest of us reaching into the crevasse, we gave a tug and the panel moved infinitesimally. Thinking better of putting our weights on it, we moved to the panel on the opposite side of the gap and pushed away. This time, the mirror moved a good distance out of its space and, as we'd hoped, revealing a genuine surface below it that could be safely docked in. Below the panels, we found sand. Not peach-toned like the mirror panels, but a dull, earthy brown, like the sand on English beaches. I was thus conflicted in my feelings toward our discovery: relieved at a finding of reality and residual similarity, and yet sad, for the image in the mirror panels had set my hopes high.

We barely had time to cry the news of our discovery to the captain when a Malarawanese native came running out of the gap we had made.

"Oh no, oh dear," he incessantly repeated, running up and down the breach, stopping every so often to run his hand along it. "Oh no, oh dear, oh no, oh dear, oh no, oh dear, we've broken! We've broken, we're exposed, oh no, oh dear…"

I cautiously took a step forward and asked the fellow what he was doing. At the sound of my voice, the Malarawanese scrambled to his feet and took me by the shoulders. As he did, I had to turn my head and shut my eyes against the sun, for you see, like the island of Malarawan, the native himself, though humanesque in height and stature, was covered in mirrors from head to toe. I was so astounded by this discovery that it took me several minutes to realize that I was being asked a question.

"Where are your glasses, Sir? Have you lost them? Have they been damaged? Were they lost from your body in this horrible landsplit?"

I was utterly baffled by his inquiry, by his supposition of my nearsightedness, until I realized he hadn't meant _eyeglasses_, but head to toe mirrors of my own. As I stared back at the inhabitant, I marveled at how clear and clean and nearly spotless the mirrors affixed to him seemed to be, but I wondered what sort of mirrors they were, for when I faced him, I could not see myself. I assured him however, despite my confusion, that I had not lost my 'glasses,' because I had never had them. Indicating the other crewmen, I proclaimed us visitors and explained our situation, which seemed to bring the native great relief. He bade us dock where we had widened the space in the mirrors after all, but as we did, I noticed his care to close the panels as far as he could after us.

While those still on the ship saw to the anchoring, the landed crewmen and I were invited by the native to be given a tour of the island. We followed him to a reflected grouping of trees a ways off from where we'd begun which we were told was the gateway to the island beyond. Here, the Malarawanese inhabitant instructed us to join hands and shut our eyes. We followed his instructions, though skeptically, and were led into Malarawan, not unlike a line of unruly schoolchildren. When we were at last allowed to open our eyes, we beheld a true wonder. The island of Malarawan was composed entirely of paneled mirrors. Not only were the people there outfitted identically to our guide, but each house, signpost, vehicle, even the street we walked on was covered by a mosaic of mirrors. On a whim, I remarked out loud how despite the abundance of blank reflections, the island was not too different from England. That's when the changes began. The once-blank surfaces of the mirrors became filled with color: the mirror walkways became cobbled streets, the houses along them appeared sturdy brick, the signposts indicated English townships nearby, and the visages of the Malarawanese people changed to those of Englishmen, women, and children.

"Sir, what's the meaning of this I say?" Our youngest crewman piped up with his question, as the rest of us had momentarily lost our voices.

"The meaning?" Our guide turned to face us, inexplicably as blank in reflection as we had found him. "Why, we changed to accommodate your party at the request of your leader." He gestured to me. I shook my head, but he went on. "Your leader mentioned the comforts of the country of England, and so we have done our best to assuage his longing."

The same crewman looked around and gave a nervous laugh. "Yeah? Then what if I said I liked the country Italy best?"

The changed began as soon as he mentioned Italy—first the stone streets becoming lighter in color, then the houses turning to stone buildings and bakeries, and the wall of mirrors behind us reflecting the Trevvi Fountain.

"But this is preposterous!" I at last managed to say. "If every aspect of your world changes to accommodate your visitors, why haven't you changed since we first saw you?"

"I have remained the same for want of your approval, Sir," answered our guide, a smiling tone in his mouthless voice. "You came to this island as an explorer, did you not? And as an explorer, you crave worlds with eccentricity to return home and amaze your contemporaries with tales of. If I had been anything but eccentric at our first meeting, you would have dismissed our island as commonplace, so I remained and still remain myself."

I inquired of the fellow the frequency of visitation to their isle, and he told me very few came so far as there, but that any who came were accommodated just as we were.

"But why change so much, Sir?" the young crewman asked. "If people're coming to you, won't they need to accept you how you are?"

"Stuff and nonsense!" said the native immediately. "Everyone responds better to things they like than things that they don't. We become so lonely here on our island that we have learned to show a familiar face to those who stop here rather than our own."

"And what happens when no-one is visiting?" I countered. "Does your island look as it did before I mentioned England?"

"Why of course it does!" the Malarawanese answered, impatience creeping into his voice. "When no onlooker comes that we can please, we remain blank as I am now, for we have no-one but ourselves to put forth an effort for."

"Does that make you happier?" one of the other crewmen asked.

"Hardly," the native sighed. "What good is being individual when no-one is there to see you?"

We requested lodging at their inn that night (which changed in look and structure several times during our sleep due to dreams of home), and set sail again the next morning. I watched as the sun rose once more and set their millions of 'glasses' aglow. I lamented for those poor people on our travel: a race made to lose their identity for simple want of acceptance. In the following weeks, I prepared myself for a remedial vacation to the Tropics by making myself a list of useful words and phrases, with a particular entry topping the page:

Filipino—to imitate, or mirror—Malarawan.


End file.
